


A Leaf moves

by mrua7



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, Imprisonment, Missing in Action, Partnership, Prison, Rescue, Spies & Secret Agents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-23 00:49:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10708677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrua7/pseuds/mrua7
Summary: Illya is set up during an assignment and sent to a harsh prison under a false name. UNCLE has no idea where he is.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: Some Advice To Those Who Will Serve Time In Prison” by Nazim Hikmet. 
> 
>  
> 
> “You'll put your foot down and live. It may not be a pleasure exactly, but it's your solemn duty to live one more day to spite the enemy. Part of you may live alone inside, like a tone at the bottom of a well. But the other part must be so caught up in the flurry of the world that you shiver there inside when outside, at forty days' distance, a leaf moves.” ~ Nazim Hikmet.
> 
> Beg pardon for any errors in my language usage of Slovak, Serbian, Russian.

Inspired by chapter 6 of my half drabbles series: “The Randomness of Life,” prompted by the poem,”Some Advice To Those Who Will Serve Time In Prison” by Nazim Hikmet. Spoiler Alert if you go back and read chapter 6...  
___________________________________________________________

 

“You'll put your foot down and live. It may not be a pleasure exactly, but it's your solemn duty to live one more day to spite the enemy. Part of you may live alone inside, like a tone at the bottom of a well. But the other part must be so caught up in the flurry of the world that you shiver there inside when outside, at forty days' distance, a leaf moves.” ~ Nazim Hikmet.

 

Illya Kuryakin walked at a good pace down the darkened street in Belgrade; poorly lit as the street lamps were irregularly placed. 

His assignment was nearing its end with having secured copies of documents from the office of the Director of the Secret Police, proving of a plan to cleanse Yugoslavia of its ethnic Serbian population. 

 

Bojan Popović, his Montenegrin contact, helped him to gain access to the building, letting him know where the documents were kept. Though Popović’s language was a Serbo-Croatian dialect, he also spoke Slovak making for ease of communication between the two men as Illya was fluent in that language.

The country of Yugoslavia consisted of a number of languages and dialects due to the fact it was actually made up of the smaller countries of Bosnia, Herzegovnia, Croatia, Macedonia, Montenegro, Serbia, and Slovenia and that, Illya supposed, added to the tension between several factions, not everyone spoke the same language. Croats lived in Serbia, and vise versa along with Bosnians and others, and each of them had radical groups wanting all others out of their lands, citing the need for racial purity.

That reminded him of the Nazi policy, which of course, nearly destroyed so many innocents across Europe. It didn’t work for Hitler, so what made these new brands of ethnic purists think it would work for them. It was astonishing to the Russian how the human race consistently failed to learn by their history

In spite of being under the one flag of Soviet backed Yugoslavia, the diverse backgrounds of its people made for tension between the different ethnic groups, so much so that some wished to eradicate others, in a sort of hate-driven ethnic cleansing. There was constant fighting and killing going among certain groups over nothing but their background and where they lived.

For that very reason, Illya wanted to get in and out quickly. The last thing he needed was to get caught in the crossfire of some ethnic feud.

“Buďte opatrní,” Popović, told him. “keď sa dostanete do bočných dverí ako je sledovanie kamery tam.” Pohybuje sa pomaly a vracia každých pätnásť sekúnd. Budete musieť otvoriť zámok rýchlo. Akonáhle ste vo vnútri sa do chodby vpravo, na riaditeľa úradu._be careful when you get to the side door as there is a surveillance camera there. It moves slowly and turns back every fifteen seconds. You will need to open the lock quickly. Once you are inside take the corridor to the right, to the Director’s office. There you will find what you need in a safe behind Marshal Tito's portrait."

The operation went off without a hitch as Illya got inside easily, cracked the combination on the simple safe using a stethoscope, photographed what documents he needed, tucked everything back into place and exited the office within minutes. It went surprisingly well, perhaps too well, as he did not encounter any sort of guards or security measures.

But no matter, he was out of the building now, heading back to his hotel; soon he would be boarding a train and getting out of the country, heading to Austria, where Napoleon was waiting for him.

Illya walked quickly down the main street Knez Minailova, as it had begun to rain,but a few minutes later he heard footsteps dogging him from behind, and casually looked back to see a man dressed in a dark trench coat and hat following him. The hairs went up on the back of his neck; from the looks of him, he was UBDA , Uprava državne bezbednosti Uprava državne sigurnosti... a member of the State Security service who was following him.

Illya quickened his pace, finding his shadow doing the same and suddenly out of the darkness another similarly dressed man stepped in front of him, blocking his path.

Illya spun on his heels, crossing the street and dodging a few cars that hit their horns in protest. A third man appeared, and now the Russian quickened his pace to a trot, turning around the next corner which he immediately regretted, as it was an alley with only one way and that was in.

The men were joined by several others, and silently they appeared behind him, lining up across the opening to the alley, blocking his only way out. One by one he could hear the sound of their pistols being cocked. “Click, click, click...”

Illya pushed his way back into the darkened alley, hoping to find some side door, but there were none. He tossed the mini camera into a pile of trash, hoping they wouldn’t find it, and the last thing he did before raising his hands in surrender was to activate the homing beacon and distress signal in his communicator pen.

He gave them no resistance as they cuffed his hands behind his back, holding onto him as they lowered their prisoner into the backseat of a dark sedan that appeared on the street in front of the opening to the alley.

Two of the men sat on either side of Illya, dwarfing him as he glanced up at them in silence.

“Chto vy ishchete u vas malo korotyshka_what are you looking at, you little runt.” One of them said to him, speaking Russian.

“Nichego osobennogo , po-vidimomu_nothing much, apparently.” There was no reaction as his little insult seemed to go over their heads. He suddenly wondered how they knew he was Russian?

The passenger in the front of the car turned back to him. “You think you are so smart, you Soviets...trying to steal our secrets.” He held up his hand, displaying the mini camera that Illya had tossed.

“Chyort.” Illya swore under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

  


The trial was quick, and the sentencing for espionage severe, yet  somehow Illya was lucky not to have received an order of execution, instead he was to spend the rest of  life in prison. He watched helplessly from the cages used to confine defendants in the courtroom.

There was no way the court could have known the things it had, or that he was the one responsible for the break in. He now realized he’d been set up...betrayed by Popović, but for what reason, he was unsure. It could have been for money, prestige or a promotion for turning in a thief, not just any thief, but one who was guilty of a crime against the state.

The trial and sentencing were kept very hush hush, since the court knew he was a Soviet citizen and didn’t want KGB or GRU swooping in and making trouble. They were concerned Illya was a KGB spy, and decided it was better just to send him to one of their prisons under a false identity.  Let him die there anonymously and let the Russians think he just disappeared, or perhaps defected to the West, that was their rationale.

The break in at the Director’s office was not reported and therefore no official record of it ever happening existed, and no one would ever know outside of the State Security. The charges against Kuryakin were listed instead as smuggling. The body of Bojan Popović was found on the left bank of the Sava river, dead of an apparent suicide, or that was what the coroner’s official report indicated. No more loose ends.

.

The judge looked directly at Illya as he pronounced sentence.

“Zoran Nikolić, ovime su osuđeni na doživotni zatvor bez uvjetnog otpusta_Zoran Nikolić, you are hereby sentenced to life in prison without parole.”

“I have told you, my name is Illya Kuryakin and I am with the United...”

The cage door was opened quickly and he was bound and silenced with a gag tied over his mouth.

For some reason they refused to acknowledge his connection to U.N.C.L.E. but as to that being a good or bad thing was, at this point; it was immaterial.

He’d been relieved of all his personal effects, but managed to retrieve a homing disc in the hollowed out heel of one of his shoes; that he kept hidden.  If necessary he would have to swallow it, and retrieve it again when he passed it.  That and hope that someone from U.N.C.L.E.  would be in range to pick up the signal.  He knew the truth though, in Yugoslavia the chance on that would be slim at best. Deep down his hope was that his partner would come in search of him.

Illya was taken out of his cell the next morning, dressed in a prison uniform of a striped grey shirt and pants and a not so well fitting pair of black boots.

Shackles were locked around his ankles and wrists, joining him to a chain gang of men who were being loaded into a dark green military bus. A look of fear filled their wide eyes as they took their seats and were chained to them.

“Where are they taking us?” One of them whispered.

“The prison near Jasenovac.”

Illya’s heart beat rapidly for a moment when he heard that name.  Jasenovac was the site of a once infamous World War II camp established by the governing Ustaše regime. Set in the marshland at the confluence of the Sava and Una rivers near the village of Jasenovac it was dismantled at the end of the war.  

The concentration camp was notorious for its barbaric practices and the untolled number of victims who died there, the majority of them being ethnic Serbs whom the Ustaše wanted to remove from the NDH, along with theJews, Roma and Sinti. The Ustaše, a nationalist organization, sought to create an independent Croatian state and when coming to power, it was established as a quasi-protectorate with the aid of Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany during the war.

Jasenovac had been a complex of sub-camps spread on both banks of the Sava and Una rivers, in the German occupation zone of the Independent State of Croatia. The largest camp was the 'Brickworks' camp southeast of Zagreb. The overall complex included the Stara Gradiska sub-camp, the killing grounds across the Sava river at Donja Gradina. five work farms, and the Uštica Roma camp.

It was was not run by the Nazis, but by the Ustaše, who were responsible for the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Serbs, during the war.  The ideology of the movement was a blend ofNaziism and Croatian nationalism. The Ustaše supported the creation of a Greater Croatia that would span to the River Drina and to the border of Belgrade. The movement emphasized the need for a racially "pure" Croatia and promoted persecution and genocide against the Serbs, Jews and gypsies The Nazis encouraged Ustaše anti-Jewish and anti-Roma actions and showed support for the intended extermination of the Serb people.

As the Nazis began to make clear their ultimate goal of genocide for the Jews and other nationalities thought to be inferior, Hitler gave a speech to Slavko Kvaternik, the military commander and Minister of Domobranstvo_ the Croatian Armed Forces in July of 1941.

“The Jews are the bane of mankind. If the Jews will be allowed to do as they will, like they are permitted in their Soviet heaven, then they will fulfill their most insane plans. And thus Russia became the center to the world's illness... if for any reason, one nation would endure the existence of a single Jewish family, that family would eventually become the center of a new plot. If there are no more Jews in Europe, nothing will hold the unification of the European nations... this sort of people cannot be integrated in the social order or into an organized nation. They are parasites on the body of a healthy society, that live off of expulsion of decent people. One cannot expect them to fit into a state that requires order and discipline. There is only one thing to be done with them: To exterminate them. The state holds this right since, while precious men die on the battlefront, it would be nothing less than criminal to spare these bastards. They must be expelled, or – if they pose no threat to the public – to be imprisoned inside concentration camps and never be released."

Prisoners sent there were marked with colors, similar to the system used with Nazi concentration camp badges, there was blue for Serbs, and red for communists and non-Serbian resistance members, while Roma had no marks, while most of the Jews marked with their yellow stars were sent on to the Nazi death camps.

Most victims at remaining at Jasenovac were killed at execution sites near the camp mostly at Granik and Gradina. Those kept alive were the skilled, as they were needed professions and trades...doctors, pharmacists, electricians, shoemakers, goldsmiths, brickmakers and such and were forced to labor in services and workshops at the camp.  
.

“But Jasenovac is gone.” Another of the prisoners on the bus whispered. “Surely it cannot be like it was during the war?” Yet the name and the memories of the place still had the power to instill terror into the hearts of even the most hardened criminals so many years after the war.

“There is a prison now where part where Jasenovac used to be,” someone else said, “ built by prisoners themselves near the old ‘Brickworks.’ The inmates are set at hard labor making bricks, and working the kiln day and night. It is a bad place and there no escaping it, or so I’ve heard.”

Illya folded his arms across his chest, closing his eyes and listening to the speculation. He thought it best to get some sleep as he knew it would be at least a five hour trip, if they were indeed going to Jasenovac.


	3. Chapter 3

Illya woke with a start as the bus came to a jarring stop, jerking him forward in his seat. The guards barked their orders,  chaining their charges together again and the men were quickly off loaded in front of the the prison; its walls made made of red brick, and standing at least 25-30 feet high, if not more.  A cold gust of wind hit them as the guards yelled and shoved them forward, herding them like cattle toward a large wooden gate.

 

“Uzmite svoj poslednji pogled na spoljni svet , nikada nećete ga videti opet.” One of the guards said to them, followed by a deep, resonant belly laugh.

Illya could pick out a few words, but none that made sense as they were out of context and he asked, speaking Slovak to the man chained beside him.

“Čo hovoril_what did he say?”

“Vezmite si posledné pohľad na vonkajší svet, nikdy neuvidí_take your last look at the outside world, for you will never see it again.”

Illya hated it when they said things like that, as the sole intent of it was to strike fear these these poor bastards, and take away their hope.  He confidently set his mind to the task of planning his escape, as they were pushed inside through the gate.

He scanned the area, noting a secondary inner wall that was at least twenty feet high by his estimation, creating a dead zone of about thirty feet in width between it and the outer wall. There were guard towers on the four corners of the wall, giving full view of the courtyard below.  The inner gate was solid iron, and now he understood why the guard said to take a last look at the outside world there was no view of the outside world beyond its walls, except the  cheerless grey sky above them.

Once inside, they were made to line up in the main yard. Illya took a few more quick glimpses, making a quick study of everything. The barred windows of the cells only faced inward to the court yard and he presumed there were no others facing the out, again reinforcing that comment about having a last look at the outside.

“Dobrodošli na državnom zatvoru u Jasenovcu čiji zatvorenici ste , i iz koje neće biti izlaza_welcome to the state prison at Jasenovac whose prisoners you are, and from which there will be no escape." So went the announcement to the new prisoners. “Work hard and you will be fed, show poor work habits and you will not eat. If you do not eat,  you will die. It is as simple as that.” The brief speech was repeated in several languages, including Slovak.

“We are all about making bricks here and that is what you will do for the rest of your natural lives. Making and carrying bricks.  The very bricks that are this this prison were fired in our kiln and mortared with the blood and sweat of prisoners such as yourselves. I do not care what you are accused of or whether you are guilty or innocent. You are mine, to do with as I please.”  Though trying to resist the feeling, the final words  spoken by the Commandant in Slovak, sent chills up Kuryakin’s spine.

"Každému podľa jeho práve púšťa_to each according to his just deserts,” related to Classical Latin "Suum cuique...to each his own.” It was the slogan used at the Nazi death camp, Buchenwald.

One by one each man’s name and number were called and to add to their fear, each was marked with colors just as the Ustaše had done during the war. As a prisoner stepped forward, he was handed a blanket, a sweater, woolen coat,  long underwear, two pair of socks, gloves, a hat and was led led off to his cell.

When the name Zoran Nikolić was called, Illya remained silent. The guard with his clipboard, walked along the remaining lines of prisoners, looking at the numbers stenciled on the right breast of their uniform shirts.

“3257.” He addressed Illya. “Why did you not answer when I called your name?”

“Because it is not my name, my name is Illya Kury...”

The guard gave him no time to finish and slammed a fist to the side of  Illya’s face, knocking him to the ground.

“Get up!” The guard screamed at Illya as he lay there, momentarily stunned, nursing his jaw and wiping the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.

The guard grabbed him by his shirt collar, pulling him to his feet and staring angrily into the Russian’s blue eyes. He looked him over from head to toe.  

“You will not last long here I think, Zoran Nikolić.”

“I said that is not my name, I am...

“Your name is what we tell you, is that clear?” The guard grabbed him by the throat, squeezing just enough to keep him from speaking, but finally released his grip. “You will not speak unless told to, is that clear?”

Illya gasped for air, but again chose not to answer. That earned him several slaps across his face.

“Now what is your name, prisoner 3257?”

Illya sighed his resignation. “ Zoran Nikolić,” he answered quietly.

“I did not hear you 3257, speak up.”

“My name is  Zoran Nikolić.” He finally droned.

“Good, you will learn your lessons quickly here  Nikolić, or you will suffer the consequences.  Take him to solitary confinement,” the guard growled, but not before the left breast of the Russian’s shirt was smeared with a mark of red paint, for Communist.

“Priyatno budet Kuryakin_nice going Kuryakin,” Illya thought to himself  in his native language, as he was shoved forward by two guards, crossing the courtyard with them flanking him, while he carried the clothing and blanket he’d been issued.

A strong gust of wind hit him, making him shiver. Winter seemed to be coming early this year, but Illya decided he would not be here for it. He had plans to escape, and to do so quickly.

They took him inside the main building and down a dark corridor, stopping in front of an iron door and opening it; they shoved him inside.

Illya landed on his hands and knees, with his things falling to the dirty floor, and he turned just in time to see the door slammed shut behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

Solitary was a small room, long and narrow, with a wooden bed covered by a straw-filled mattress, along with two buckets sitting to the side on the cold slate floor. The door was solid metal, with a sliding panel at its base, most likely for the delivery of food. One of the metal buckets was filled nasty looking water, and the other bucket...well, that had not been cleaned out since the last occupant had been there and stank horribly.

  


If he walked five paces, that covered the width of the room, the length was a few feet longer than the cot. The ceiling was quite low, and luckily for once, being shorter helped him as he wasn’t forced to crouch to avoid hitting his head, as he was sure previous, taller occupants did.

Illya threw his things on the bed and climbed up on it, grabbing hold of the bars in the small window above it, giving him full view of the prison courtyard and the lichen covered inner brick walls.  He had an unobstructed view of the comings and goings within it.  If he could hold himself up there long enough, he could at least observe any guards, their patterns as well as their shift changes.

He watched as the iron gate opened and a large flatbed lorry backed in.  A fork lift arrived from a large archway at the back of the prison, lifting pallets of bricks to the truck bed, while prisoners climbed atop it, tying off the bricks and putting strapping over them to hold them in place.  Once the truck was full, the prisoners and the forklift disappeared back through the arch.

The lorry pulled forward to the gate, but stopped as guards checked beneath it with mirrors and among the flats of bricks for anyone hiding there, trying to escape.  “So much for that option,” Illya mumbled as the truck pulled through the gate and it was shut behind it with a resonant boom.

He finally tired of watching the little activity going on outside in the courtyard and lowered himself to his bed. The Russian grabbed his blanket, pulling it up over himself, dozing off, as there was little else to do. Perhaps he might formulate an escape plan and the unconscious mind would sometimes pick up on details that the waking mind missed, and these might make themselves known in his dreams.

Sometime later he was woken from a dreamless sleep as the trap door opened to his cell, and a tin plate with some slices of black bread and a small shriveled apple appeared.

Illya called out in Slovak. “Mohol by som mať nejaké čerstvej pitnej vody a čistej nádoby pre moje potreby ďalšie …might I have some fresh drinking water and a clean bucket for my other...needs?”

He heard a cackling laugh.

"Voda je tak čistá, ako to dostane ako jeho z rieky Sávy, a ako na druhú vedra, s tým žiť_ the water is as as clean as it’s going to get as its from the Sava river, and as to the other bucket, live with it.”

He was thirsty but decided against touching the drinking water and nibbled on the bread, saving the apple for last to at least moisten his mouth.  He ate it right down to the core, leaving little else but the seeds, and those he dried and put into his pocket.  They were edible, and he would save them to add to what ever food they saw fit to feed him or not later on.

.

Three days later he was brought to his permanent cell,  there was another cot in there, obviously belonging to his cellmate, but he had yet to see the man. Illya was released to general population, and there given the opportunity to wander the courtyard. The building that housed the prisoners was a single level, and not high enough to allow anyone a view of the outside.  The roofs were lined with razor sharp concertina wire to prevent anyone from climbing up there.  

He got a better look at the iron gate, deciding that was impenetrable and shifted his gaze to the large archway at the back of the prison yard.

“Ako razmišljate da pokušava da pobegne kroz tu, zaboravi na nju,” a fellow prisoner milling next to him mumbled.

He was speaking Serbian but Illya shrugged his shoulders to show his lack of understanding. “Hovorí slovenská?” He asked.

“Áno, hovorím slovenské. Som povedal, že keď si myslíte, že sa snaží uniknúťtadiaľ, zabudni na to_yes, I speak Slovak. I said if you’re thinking of trying to escape through there, forget about it,” the man replied, as he smoked a rolled cigarette. He offered Illya a drag, and the Russian took it, letting the smoke fill his lungs with its warmth.

“That archway leads to hell. It is the entrance to the brickworks. Trust me, you’ll see the inside of it soon enough. They said you were Serbian but you speak only Slovak, and with coloring like yours, you look more like a Russian.  Are you?”

Illya chose silence again, best to keep his identity secret here.  Tito had broken ties with Moscow, and that did not bode well for any Russian in this place, one thing these people hated more than each other were the Russians.

The man waved him off when he received no answer, and walked away, leaving Illya to his own thoughts.

Not to be daunted, Kuryakin continued to explore what he could, but after he’d seen enough; he was filled with a feeling of disappointment.  Escape from this place just might be more difficult than he first supposed, but still, not impossible.  He would figure a way out of here, even if it took him a bit longer.

The next day Illya was woken in his cell while it was still dark; the bed next to his still remaining empty.

“Vstávaj psa_up dog!” A guard snickered as he called to him in Slovak, banging on the bars with a club. “It is time for you to earn your keep.”

Kuryakin squinted at the bright spot lights that illuminated the prison yard, walking along with most of the men he had arrived with as they were finally led through the arched opening.

Inside there was the smell of sulphur and smoke. The air was rancid with it and hot as blazes from the large kiln that stood to the back of the immense chamber. The floor was lined with row upon row of bricks in varying stages of cooling There were men wearing asbestos gloves, pr simply rags on their hands, picking up the ones that were cooled and loading them into baskets hooked over the shoulders of other prisoners who carried their heavy burdens on their backs to the next room that served as a warehouse. There the bricks were stacked on pallets, to await pickup.

A basket was abruptly shoved into Illya’s hands by another prisoner whose face was smeared black with soot.  “Put this on.”

Illya followed suit as the other men positioned the ropes fastened to the baskets over their shoulders, and were loaded down with bricks...joining the endless line of others performing the same task.

There was a ventilation shaft above the kiln, but no other means of fresh air entering the work area, and Illya lungs heaved as he breathed in the hot dirty air, struggling under the weight of the bricks he carried. He was a slight man, though strong enough, but this work would challenge even the strongest of men.

The line of men moved at a deliberately slow pace, going from the firing room to the warehouse and back, trying to lengthen the time between loads.

Their faces were blank, as their minds tried to take them somewhere else while they worked at their task. Only a grimace and groan would show now and then as they struggled to carry the heavy bricks.

  
  



	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  
  
Napoleon waited for word from his partner in a hotel in Villach, the second largest city in the Carinthian state in southern Austria, near the Drava River. He was starting to get worried as Illya had missed his check in by an hour and Illya never missed a check in unless he was in trouble.  
  
The Russian’s communicator was not active; giving Napoleon only buzzing static when he tried to contact his partner.  
  
He picked up a silver briefcase from the floor, putting it on the bed and opening it. Setting up a tracking unit stored inside, he raised  an antenna on the outside edge of the case, before switching on the device; instantly there was a signal, a weak one, an agent in distress beacon on Illya’s frequency, but it lasted only a minute and disappeared.  
  
“Damn,” Solo muttered, slamming the briefcase closed. He immediately pulled his communicator.   
  
“Open Channel D- overseas relay, Waverly.”  
  
“Yes Mr. Solo, was the operation a success?” Alexander Waverly asked with his usual aplomb.  
  
“Sir, we have a problem. Mr. Kuryakin missed his last check in and activated his ‘agent in distress beacon.’ The signal lasted less than a minute, and went dead.”  
  
“Bounce the data to us Mr. Solo and I will see if we can get a fix on the location.”  
  
“Yes sir.” Napoleon reopened the case, turning the unit on again and adjusting it to sent the last signal received.”  
  
“Yes we have it Mr. Solo, triangulating it now....yes.  Mr. Kuryakin’s signal came from Belgrade, in the vicinity of….Knez Minailova Street.  That is as specific as we can get. Find him Mr. Solo, and the information he was supposed to retrieve. It is vital that it be available to present to the United Nations Security Council.”  
  
“Yes sir, Solo out.”  
  
Napoleon punched his fist into a bed pillow; he hated when the Old Man got like that, putting Illya second to the mission, but he knew in truth, the mission always came first, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.  
  
That night he boarded a train bound for Yugoslavia, heading for Belgrade and using a cover as a French salesman for a wine import company.  
  
His false identity papers, a small bribe and a several bottles of Marselan made the border crossing a simple task and afterwards he acquired a car for the remainder of his eight hour journey.  
  
Upon arrival in Belgrade, the first thing he did was to head to Knez Minailova, Illya’s last known location.  He searched the poorly lit street and its alleyways, dreading he would find the body of his partner, but instead he found nothing, not even a clue.   
  
The next thing he needed to do was to find the contact Illya had spoken about, a man named Bojan Popović.  He had no idea where to locate him, or what he did for a living, and after making inquiries he soon found out Popović was one of the most common names in the country. Napoleon realized finding the man would be like looking for a needle in a haystack, but he had to try, as his window of opportunity was growing smaller with every passing moment.  
  
Napoleon spent the next few days searching in vain, not finding the right Popović, as he discreetly flashed a picture of Illya to people he met on the street.  He needed to be careful, and not draw the attention of the secret police.  
  
There was  only so much time before he would have to return to New York, with or without Illya and the documentation, as the Old Man wouldn’t let this go on forever.  
  
A frustrating week later, after having no success in finding any signs of Kuryakin, Napoleon was recalled to New York and forced to abandon the search for his partner. The only thing of interest he’d found was a small newspaper article in  Vjesnik, the major Croatian newspaper. It stated that the body of one Bojan Popović was found on the left bank of the Sava river, his death listed as a suicide.   
  
This was too much of a coincidence in Napoleon’s mind, and  the thought that his partner’s body might eventually be fished out of the river turned his stomach into a knot.   
  
But his time was up, and he had no choice but to leave...”Illya,” he whispered, hoping the wind would carry his voice to his friend,   
whereever he was.  
  
.  
  
Solo was restless on the flight home, not able to sleep, as his only thoughts were of his partner.  Even the pretty stewardesses couldn’t pull him out of his funk. “Illya,” he muttered. “where the hell are you tovarisch.” He prayed the Russian was still alive and swore an oath to himself. “I’ll find you buddy, I promise.”  
  
The weather was dismal and raining when his flight touched down at Kennedy Airport, but instead of an U.N.C.L.E. driver waiting there to pick him up, he was met by April Dancer and Mark Slate.   
  
April was a ray of sunshine on a dull day, dressed in a blue-checkered mini dress, sporting a bright yellow slicker and rain hat, and standing beside her holding a closed black umbrella was her slightly damp partner.  
  
“Welcome home guv.” Mark offered his hand. “Heard about Illya and figured you could use a warm welcome.”  
  
April slipped her hand into Napoleon’s, leaning in and giving him a peck on the cheek. “I know you must feel pretty down right now, having had to leave off the search for him. We thought you might need some moral support.”  
  
“Thanks you two,” he tried mustering a smile.” Yeah, I’m not feeling too happy right now.”  
  
“How about we go have a few pints and relax? You can fill us in,” Mark asked. “Can’t hurt?” He shrugged.  
  
“I’m supposed to report to Waverly for an assignment.” Napoleon answered downheartedly.  
  
“You know what mate, to hell with him for once. You look like you could use a stiff drink, and if he questions why you’re late mate, tell him you were caught in traffic...what’s he going to do, fire his best agent over being late?”  
  
“I second that,” April added.”Come one, our car’s parked just outside the terminal.”   
  
Mark drove for a bit, finally ending up at a bar on South Conduit Ave. in Jamaica and there they sat at a booth in the back having their drinks, and letting Napoleon simply unwind.  
  
“We’re here for you darling,” April rubbed his back as he bowed his head, feeling quite helpless. That was something Napoleon Solo was very unaccustomed to.  
  
“Yeah mate, somethings gotta give and if you need us to help you find him, we’re with you.”   
  
“Thanks.” Napoleon took a swallow from his pilsner glass, followed by a shot of whiskey.  
  
April and Mark glanced at each other, unaccustomed to seeing their friend drink like that.   
  
After a few more drinks Napoleon stopped, looking at his watch he announced, “Time to pay the piper, better get going to headquarters...”  
  
.  
He arrived at Waverly’s conference room, after having gone to his office to freshen up, brushing his teeth and using a little mouthwash to mask the smell of the liquor and to help in the process, he splashed on a little ‘Old Spice’ for good measure.  
  
He sat in his usual seat at the table, with the chair Illya usually occupied next to him now ominously empty. He half listened as Waverly droned on about something, until he was called on the carpet by the Old Man for not paying attention.  
  
“Young man, I am keenly aware that you are concerned about Mr. Kuryakin and though you may not believe it, so am I.   Rest assured I have sent operatives into Yugoslavia to continue the search for him and I will let you know immediately if we hear anything positive.  Understood?”  
  
“Positive?” Solo thoughts brought more doubts; would Waverly tell him if Illya was found dead, or would he withhold that information to be given at a more opportune time. Waverly was no fool, he knew Illya’s death would  affect his CEA for the worse. “What would he do if Illya had been killed? He knew he’d stay with U.N.C.L.E. of course, but he wouldn’t have another partner. Not this time, no one could replace Illya Kuryakin, neither as a partner or a friend.  
  
“Yes sir, and thank you,” he replied, hoping that it would be positive news as the Old Man had promised.  
  
“Yes, and please Mr. Solo, I know you’re upset, but next time Mr. Slate and Miss Dancer take you to a public house instead of reporting to headquarters...”  
  
Napoleon hunched over with embarrassment. “Yes, sorry sir.” How the hell did the Old Man know?  
  
“Hmm, quite, and now back to the task at hand. I am afraid G. Emory Partridge is up to no good again. Apparently he has taken over a small town in Vermont and is attempting to turn it into another East Snout, as it were. I’ll need you to go there to see what else he is up to...”


	6. Chapter 6

 

Days drifted into weeks, with Illya having little success at devising his escape. There were no regular patterns of pickups and the guard’s shifts varied.  The living conditions in the prison were hardly tolerable, and the food given the inmates, was at best, barely providing enough calories to allow the men to have the energy to maintain the grueling work schedule they were forced to endure.  

They were given a soup made of hot water with starch for breakfast, and beans for lunch and dinner with a slice of dark bread.  Sometimes there would be potatoes instead of beans or turnip soup. The apple Illya had been given while in solitary confinement was the only piece of fruit he’d seen since he arrived.

There was a temporary improvement when a visitor from the Red Cross arrived to inspect conditions there.  That day they were served Kashi with real milk and hard boiled eggs for breakfast,  Thick cheese sandwiches and apples for lunch, and for supper a hearty stew with beef, carrots and potatoes.

Those prisoners who were weakened or looked too malnourished  were hidden and missed out on the hearty meals.  Work in the brickyard ceased for the day, with only a few workers maintaining the kiln and cooling platforms. There would be no carrying of bricks today.

No one was allowed to speak to the inspectors, but somehow Illya managed to slip one of them a small piece of paper with his information on it and who to contact. He’d tossed it on the ground in front of a woman, and she picked it up when no one was looking.  He only hoped she would discreetly open it, read it and follow through with the instructions but as an afterthought, he hoped she wouldn’t report him to the guards. The delegation left, and he breathed a sigh of relief when there were no repercussions. All he could do now was hope his message would make its way to his partner. As each day passed, Illya looked for a sign, something to give him hope. “Napoleon, please find me?” He whispered.

The next day, the rations returned to the usual thin gruel and turnip soup and the toiling began again.

The hardest thing to endure were the eleven hour work days, six days a week, of hauling the bricks to a warehouse where they were stored until the lorries arrived to transport them or working near the heat of the immense kiln used to bake the bricks. Inmates were forced daily to perform hours of backbreaking labor, under the watchful eyes of their guards who’d  punish any prisoner for the most trivial of reasons. Hinko Kordić, the ruthless head guard, would personally lash inmates in order to force them to work harder.

Their toils were non-stop day in and day out, and when Illya would return to his cell after his shift, he would fall exhausted to his bunk, with his last words whispered before falling into a deep sleep.  

“Napoleon where are you?”

Illya’s cellmate was an older man named Radovan Dragovic, who had once been a doctor on the outside until he mistakenly killed the wife of a high ranking party member.  He was not capable of working in the brickyard, and since he had medical experience, he was put in the prison clinic, treating as best he could, cases of typhus, pleuritis, influenza, dysentery and diptheria, as well as exposure to the elements as the prisoners worked, rain or shine. There were never ending injuries such as broken arms, fingers and legs...as well as the wounds from the lashings of Hinko  Kordić.

Dragovic had little medical supplies to work with and what was legitimate was to be held in reserve for the guards. He convinced one of them to get him seeds, and he planted a small herb garden that he could use for medicinal purposes.

Illya used the tin plate he’d been issued, to scratch marks on his cell wall, and at first it seemed like a good idea and gave him something to focus on, but as time passed he stopped. He was too exhausted at times to think about it, and the more hash marks he made, the more hopeless they made him feel.

He kept to himself for the most part, given there was a language barrier with only a few of the men speaking Slovak. There were a few Russian prisoners, but he thought it best to avoid speaking his native language, as that might open doors that he wanted to remain shut.

When he had the energy he would converse with Dragovic, but he let the man do most of the talking and try not to fall asleep while he did.

“So how did you come to be in this place Zoran?”

“I was set up by a colleague of mine,” Illya mumbled.

“So you are innocent then? That is a story I have heard many times over.” Radovan smiled.

“I did not say I was innocent,”Illya slyly smiled, and rolled over in his bunk, ending the conversation. He fell asleep quickly.

Radovan listened as his cellmate talked in his sleep saying but one name, repeating it...Napoleon. He wondered why the man would be dreaming of the French Emperor? Strange.  
.

There were no panes of glass in the barred windows of each cell;  on the outside there were only wooden shutters that Illya presumed would be closed when winter came, cutting them off even more from the outside world.  They had a small laundry in the prison and once a month the inmates were permitted to boil their clothing, but waiting for them to dry was not easy as they would have to sit naked,  wrapped only in their blankets as their clothes dried.   Most of them simply learned to live with the filth rather than suffer that cold indignity.

Weeks now turned into months and Illya became familiar with this prison life. He found himself weakening, becoming malnourished and overworked, but reminded himself to fight to live through the hardships and abuse.

Periodically the threat of death would be very evident not just from starvation and weakness. The guards would put on public punishment, selecting an inmate as they lined up in the courtyard for the morning headcount.  An individual would be randomly selected to receive the punishment of death for no reason at all and executed with a shot to the head in front of the others. The guards would make it worse by prolonging the process, stomping about and asking questions, gazing into the inmates eyes, choosing one and then would stop and point their revolver at another and shoot him instead. It was all for the sake of fear and controlling the prisoners.

There was little the inmates could to to resist, either passively or aggressively. There were some who would gather together, steal food and plot escapes, but eventually their actions caught up with them.  Those who did nothing, and remained passive could only hope they would get through their day unscathed.

To the guards, they were subhuman, especially the Serbs. Illya was listed as Serbian, though his features did not resemble that of one who was a Serb.   Most of the guards suspected he was Russian, given he was marked as a Communist with his blond and blue-eyed looks, and guessed he might be KGB; given that, they thought it best to leave him be.

KGB struck fear into their hearts even in their prison world where they controlled life and death. That was the one thing that helped Illya survive, he was left alone for the most part, unlike most of the other prisoners.

Little by little he watched many of the men become like animals;  their lives revolving around following orders and eating whatever food they could get their hands on. Nothing else mattered to them, they became oblivious to their despair and thought only of surviving one more day.


	7. Chapter 7

  


 

Weeks drifted into months as winter finally arrived with a vengeance, burying the prison under three feet of pure white snow.  At first it was looked upon as a boon, with the prisoners boiling the snow for the cleanest drinking water they’d had since arriving. It would have to sustain them as the Sava river was now frozen over.

 

  
The first day of the storm brought all work to a halt, giving the men precious hours of rest, but once the snow stopped, the courtyard and road needed to be cleared. Work gangs were formed and many of them saw the outside world for the first time in years, as they were sent under guard with shovels in hand, to clear the immediate road leading to the prison gate.

Several men were shot trying to escape, sneaking off to cross the frozen river, putting the rest of the prison population on edge for fear of some sort of reprisal.

The Russian was working inside the courtyard with others prisoners, toiling away at removing the snow.  He was weak and could barely lift the shovel at times. He willed himself to go on in the snow, to lift himself from his bunk each day with an inhuman effort. He would live, and Napoleon would find him. “Where are you...where are you my friend?” He would whisper in the night.

Illya stopped to control his cough that had developed over the past week, and the whip wielded by Hinko Kordić, struck him.  In a moment of fury, and with a sudden burst of energy he charged Kordić, knocking him to the ground and smashing him left and right with his fists, cursing at the man in Russian.

“Ya ubʹyu tebya.Vy chertovski ublyudok_I’ll kill you. You fucking bastard.” Even in his weakened state it took two guards to get him off of Kordić.

The guard wiped his bloodied face with his gloved hand, pointing it at Illya as he was held down in the snow by the guard. Kordić stepped forward, kicking him in the side, while the men prevented him from rolling up into a fetal position to protect himself.

“Solitary for you Nikolić and no food for three days,” he roared, giving him one last kick.

Illya was lucky the man just hadn’t shot him. Perhaps deep down, he wanted him to... He was released after five days, bruised but with nothing broken, and was sent to the clinic as it was obvious he’d become more ill making him useless to work.

His dry cough was bad, he had shortness of breath and severe chest pain when he inhaled and exhaled, yet between breaths, he felt almost no pain at all.  His cellmate, Dr. Dragovic diagnosed it as pleurisy, a viral infection of the lower respiratory system and had possibly developed from a fungal or parasitic infection. There were no antibiotics to use, and the best the doctor could offer were treatments for Illya to breath in steaming fumes from a pot of boiling water filled with herbs, while he covered his head with a cloth to contain the potency of the vapors. It helped during the day, but at night Illya thought at times he was going to cough up a lung.

The cold weather made for less demand for bricks and less work, blissfully shortening the days for the inmates. The extra time was spent sleeping, playing cards and doing what they could to amuse themselves,  but Illya kept to himself or with Dragovic in the clinic.  His cough was still there, but the treatments had lessened its severity.

Winter passed quickly, and there was no view of the outside world as promised, only lichen covered walls to face each day. Illya looked up as a bird flew overhead, a sign of life. With the air of Spring, the thaw finally came. Outside there was life, hope. He was growing weak in body, but not in spirit. Napoleon? He stopped whispering his friends name, and would now only think it.

He was like a bird, pecking at every last crumb, even the turnip soup tasted like a king’s meal now. When others died, the rations increased. That afternoon there were two slices of black bread instead of one. Illya asked himself, “Would he soon be the next one to help fill the bellies of the others?”

He struggled with his workload that had now increased with the coming of the spring weather,  wheeling heavy loads of bricks in a wooden wheelbarrow or carrying bricks in the basket slung over his shoulders to be stacked on the pallets. Trudging back and forth every so slowly under the watchful eye of Kordić, and now ignoring the whip as it struck him.

Illya’s only focus had become to stand, and make it from one place to the other with his load of bricks, so he could eat. He had become as the other prisoners, with life revolving around following orders and eating whatever food he could get his hands on to survive another day.

 

 

 

Today he ate some bugs... a beetle, it tasted like apples, wasps like pine nuts, and worms like fried bacon. Or did they? Was he losing his mind? His body was fading..."Napoleon." He dared to utter it. The cough was bad again, his chest wracked with pain and he was unable to leave his bed to work.  

No food...he knew what that meant as he lay staring with sunken eyes at the red brick walls of his prison cell; he tried counting the scratch marks he’d made but couldn’t focus to do it.

Dragovic had Illya moved to the clinic to keep a better eye on him and perhaps make the young blonds imminent death a little more comfortable in the end. He felt the head of the man he knew only as Zoran Nikolić and found luckily there was no fever.  Gently lifting Illya’s head, he held a bowl of hot fish broth infused with herbs to his lips.

“Drink my friend, it will help you feel more comfortable."

Illya sputtered and coughed as he tried to swallow the disgusting liquid.

“Nyet,” he mumbled, pushing away the bowl,” Ya ne mogu. Ostavʹte menya v pokoe_I cannot. Leave me be.”

Dragovic recognized and understood Russian. “Takim obrazom, vy ne to, kto vy, kazhet·sya, Zoran_ so you are not who you seem to be Zoran.” He gently ran his fingers through Illya’s hair, caressing him in a fatherly way.

Illya looked up at him. " _Nyet_ , I am not, but what does that matter now?” He closed his blue eyes, falling asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

  
  
  
  
  
A group from the United Nations would be arriving to do another inspection and those prisoners too weak to work were moved to the clinic as well, to be kept out of sight from the visitors.  
  
A complaint had been filed by the Red Cross, advising the U.N. of unsanitary conditions, and prisoner abuses, and now the inspectors arrived a day early taking everyone by surprise, sending the warden and his guards into a panic.  
  
Slobodan Ivanović, the prison warden tried his best to keep Margaret Van Dorn and her assistants in his office, offering them lunch and drinks to buy time for his guards to do what they needed, but she would hear nothing of it.  
  
“Fine, let us get this over with then,” Ivanović snapped at her, mistakenly telling himself, what did it matter what she saw, as a woman’s word only carried so much in the the world.  
  
She and her pair of assistants were escorted through the prison, and the brickyards making her notes on a clipboard and saying nothing, but when Margaret would spot a blond prisoner, she would turn to her dark haired assistant, getting his attention.    
  
He shook his head no, and they continued on. This time she insisted on seeing the conditions of the prison clinic. It was there she spotted Illya, nearly unrecognizable, as he was thin, filthy and unshaven and his hair had grown quite long. It was so dirty that it looked almost brown. Her gesture to the assistants was hardly perceptible, and this time they smiled, barely nodding back to her.  
  
Without hesitation the dark haired one turned to the guard who was escorting them, delivering a karate chop to his neck and rendering him unconscious.  
  
“Mark, you take his uniform and we’ll dress Illya in your clothes.” Napoleon said.  
  
“Are you sure this is going to work Napoleon?” April asked.  
  
“Hey you’ll be leaving with the same number of assistants that you came with, and the guard will escort us out to our car.” He winked at her, and he turned his attention to the doctor. “I need him clean, shaven and ready to go in fifteen minutes, can you do that for me? We’re taking him out of the prison.”  
  
“Ah so it is you Zoran calls out to in his sleep, and not the Bonaparte,” Dragovic said.  “Yes, I can have him ready.  It is good to see that he has friends such as you who are willing to risk their lives for him.”  
  
The old man hesitated. “I beg of you to do something for me?  When you get out of here, please tell the world of us, and our plight.”  
  
“Napoleon, is there any way we can take him with us?” April asked.  
  
“No no, young woman. I am too old for such an undertaking, just promise  me you will try to get us some help.”  
  
“I will Doctor, I promise.” April smiled, touching her hand to the Radovan’s care worn cheek.  
  
Illya was washed and shaved in minutes, with his hair quickly clipped to a decent length by April. He was barely coherent during the whole process and seemed not to know who they were.  
  
April pulled a bottle of smelling salts from her purse, wafting it under the Russian’s nose, and bringing him to his senses with a start.  
  
“Where am I?” He asked, his eyes darting in confusion around the room.  
  
“Among friends,” Napoleon whispered. He took a small vial out of his pocket. “Drink this, it’s a stimulant. We need you up and able to walk out of here.”  
  
Illya swallowed it, making a face at the bitter taste and in a few minutes he was standing on his own two feet, with the help of what Napoleon had given him along and his sheer force of will.  
  
“Okay, show time,” Napoleon said as he and April took hold of Illya, steadying him between them as they returned to the Warden’s office, escorted by Mark dressed as the guard.  
  
“Come, come in Mrs. Van Dorn,” Ivanović gushed, still trying to sway her.” So did you see everything you needed? I hope you will give us a favorable report. It is so difficult to control these men at times as they act more animal than human beings.”  
  
“Thank you Warden Ivanović, I’ll make sure you’re forwarded a copy of my report to the Council,” Margaret Van Dorn said, “and don’t fret dear, it’s not as bad as you imagine. I agree with you, it’s so difficult to keep such louts in line, isn’t it?”  
  
Ivanović smiled, thinking perhaps she did understand the need for such harshness at his prison.  He looked to the guard who was with them, not recognizing him, yet there was something oddly familiar about him.  
  
“Jesi li ti novi ovdje_are you new here?”  
  
Mark tried not to panic, as he only knew a few words in Croatian, and caught out of the corner of his eye, Napoleon nodding ‘yes.’  
  
“Da gospodine_yes sir.” He answered confidently.  
  
“Trebali su izvijestili da se prije nego što je otišao na dužnosti_you should have reported to me before you went on duty. Don’t let it happen again.”  
  
Napoleon carefully shook his head ‘no’.  
  
“Ne gospodine_no sir.” Mark replied.  
  
Ivanović thanked April for her visit. “It was a pleasure to meet such a beautiful woman, and your image will bring such pleasant memories for my unfortunate existence in such a harsh and dreary place.” He took her hand and kissed it.  
  
“Thank you.” April cringed.  
  
“Sada prate ove ljude na njihov automobil_now escort these people outside to their car.  
  
Napoleon nodded, giving Mark his cue, and holding on tight to Illya keeping him steady; thankful the warden hadn’t recognized him cleaned up and without a beard.  
  
“Da gospodine_yes sir.” Mark answered again with a crisp salute. He turned, following April and the others as they headed to the office door, hurrying to open it for them.  
  
Once out into the hall, supporting Illya between the two of them, Napoleon and Mark nearly dragged him out of the building while April walked point, making sure the coast was clear.  
  
“Okay buddy boy,” Napoleon said as they reached the courtyard, “Time to walk tall.” He held onto Illya’s arm as the Russian struggled to maintain a semblance of normality as they crossed the yard to the main gate with Mark now in the lead, with April helping to support Illya now.  
  
The iron gate opened slowly, and they looked straight ahead, avoiding glancing up at the watchtowers.  
  
“Halt,” a guard called to them, and they froze in their tracks. There was nothing they could do. If they drew their weapons, they’d be gunned down where they stood.  
  
He approached April, reaching inside his uniform jacket.  
  
“Da li možete da dobijete ovo pismo mojoj ženi ? Ona je u Beogradu i nisam videla mesecima_could you get this letter to my wife? She is in Belgrade and I haven't seen her for months.”  
  
Napoleon nodded with a sigh of relief, and smiled as he took the envelope from him.  
  
“He wants us to deliver a letter to his wife in Belgrade,” Napoleon said.  
  
“Oh, yes.” April nodded, continuing to smile as she enunciated each word. “Yes-we-will.”  
  
“Thhhank ou, vera much.” The guard replied in broken English, then waved them on.  
  
They made it to the outside, walking the distance between the gate and the car without rushing, making it feel as if were the longest twenty yards they’d ever traveled. But once they reached the waiting sedan, they quickly piled into it, with Mark getting behind the wheel.  
  
Illya lay in the backseat with his head cradled in his partner’s lap. Everything was spinning and he couldn’t recall anything of what had just taken place. Thoughts raced through his head... was he dying, had he died already? He felt arms wrapped around him, holding him tightly, covering him with a warm blanket.  It felt good, reassuring. A familiar voice spoke to him, encouraging him, telling him he was all right.  
  
Everything hurt, and he coughed violently in response to the weariness of his body.Yet he felt a hand holding his now, squeezing it reassuringly and finally as his head began to clear a little, he recognized the voice of his partner, it was filled with concern and emotion, but confidence as well.  
  
"Tovarisch?"  
  
Illya’s eyes opened a moment later to see a smile, one he knew well.  
He was out of that place now, he didn't know how, but he was free.  
  
Napoleon bundled the warm blanket around his partner and held him tightly, brushing Illya’s chopped up hair out of his eyes.  
  
"You were very late this time," Illya whispered, his voice barely perceptible as he tried to smile.  
  
"I may be late, but I'll always be there...I’m sorry I took so long finding you. Your note eventually made it from the Red Cross to the U.N., but it was slow in getting to us. Damn red tape.”  
  
“Da...” Illya took a deep gasp, it was obvious he was having trouble breathing.  
  
Napoleon held onto his friends hand, squeezing it again tightly as Illya broke out into violent a fit of coughing, moaning in pain from it.  He could hear the rattling and wheezing in the Russian’s lungs, and prayed it wasn’t too late. Illya was strong, and the most stubborn man that Napoleon knew, that, he hoped would help his partner hang on.  
  
“Ne pytaytesʹ govoritʹ. kety, uspokoytesʹ’_don’t try to talk. chum, just it easy.”  He spoke Russian as he looked into his partner’s still bright blue eyes.  
  
“I must give you more lessons...your accent leaves much to be desired.” Illya tried smiling again.  
  
That was at least a good sign to Napoleon, as his friend still had his snarky sense of humor.  
  
“That’ a deal. You just get better and then you can give me those lessons.”  His words went  uheard, as Illya had fallen asleep.  
  
The car bearing United Nations plates and flags sped off northwest, heading towards Austria, with no one following them. Once crossing the border, they were met by the waiting arms of U.N.C.L.E. personnel.    
  
Illya’s condition was quickly assessed,  heart rate and pulse checked.  
He was put on an IV with an infusion of Ringer’s lactate and given antibiotics, as they whisked him away in a medivac chopper to a hospital in Vienna. Once he was stabilized, he would be moved to medical in the West Berlin headquarters, and finally brought back to New York for rehabilitation.  
  
Napoleon was given the thumbs up by the medic that his partner was going to make it, and he watched alongside April and Mark as the chopper rose into the air.  
  
“We almost lost him,” April said, as she locked her arm though Napoleons’; her auburn hair blowing wildly from the whipping of the helicopter blades.  
  
“I know,” Napoleon answered somberly, brushing his forelock back into place.“ But we didn’t, not this time.”  
  
“We’ll run out of our nine lives eventually, won’t we mate?” Mark asked as he followed behind them, having removed the uniform jacket and hat.  
  
“That, my dear chap, is an answer I don’t want to give,” Napoleon  replied.  
  
He’d seen Illya come through after some pretty close calls, and according to his count, his partner had run out of his nine lives a long time ago. Maybe, Napoleon hoped, some of that Solo luck had finally rubbed off on his stubborn Russian friend.  
  
A line of poetry suddenly popped into his head, about endurance, and not giving up hope.  
  
“It's not that you can't pass ten or fifteen years inside and more --you can, as long as the jewel on the left side of your chest doesn't lose its luster.” * That applied, he thought, to Illya Kuryakin as the Russian’s heart hadn’t lost its strength yet, in spite of the trials sent his way.  
  
.  
  
Finis  
  
.

*  a line from “Some Advice To Those Who Will Serve Time In Prison.” By Nazim Hikmet.

  
Authors note:  Jasenovac concentration camp was real but the prison in my story is not.  


 


End file.
